If the Shoe Fits
by lulamara
Summary: Angela attempts to unravel the mystery that is Tony’s taste in… footwear? Follow-up to the Season 7 episode “Tony and the Princess.” One shot.


**Title:** If the Shoe Fits**  
Category:** Who's the Boss?**  
Characters:** Angela, Tony, Mona**  
Summary:** Angela attempts to unravel the mystery that is Tony's taste in… footwear? Follow-up to the Season 7 episode "Tony and the Princess." I saw it on Nick at Nite recently and was inspired. But hey, if you haven't seen that episode (ever or in a while), don't let that keep you from reading this! It will probably still make sense… at least I hope it will. : ) Thanks in advance to those who review!  
**Disclaimer:** The characters in the story do not belong to me. Neither do their shoes. I'm just borrowing them for a little while.

-----

"What are you doing?" 

"Oh, nothing."

"Don't play innocent with me. I can feel your eyes boring into my backside, Angela…" The ring of keys Tony's holding in his hand jangles as he waves it to emphasize the word "boring." A few seconds of silence ensue.

"Angela? Angela!"

"Hmm?"

Angela's head snaps up, her eyes guiltily meeting Tony's accusing ones as he spins around from opening the front door to face her.

"Aha! You were starin' at my butt again, weren't you?"

Her mouth drops open. "I most certainly was not!"

"Then what were you lookin' at, eh?"

She motions for him to go inside and he starts to turn back around. Then, apparently deciding that he is not safe as long as Angela is behind him, he faces her again and walks backward through the doorway.

She rolls her eyes as she follows him inside. "For the last time, Tony, I was not staring at your… posterior."

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. In fact, I wasn't staring at all. I was merely thinking about something… rather intensely… and my gaze was fixated on… well, never mind. It's not important. But it wasn't on your… caboose."

Tony doesn't look convinced. He doesn't quite realize how wrong he is. And vain. And stubborn. And has she mentioned wrong?

He stands there for a minute. "Alright. Well, I'm going to get dinner ready."

"Okay."

Slowly he backs away, then turns and practically runs through the kitchen door, leaving it swinging wildly in his wake.

Angela drops down into the chenille comfort of the sofa with a sigh. She reaches down to remove her black Gucci pumps and, holding the shoes in her hands, gazes at them pensively.

Proof number 7,328 that she still doesn't know everything about Tony Micelli: shoes. As they were leaving the bar that afternoon, she noticed for the first time that Tony wears brown loafers. How could she never have noticed what kind of shoes he wears? Hasn't there ever been a time when he needed a new pair and she bought them for him? No, now that she thinks about it, there never has been.

"Is this a bad time?"

Angela looks up to see her mother standing there, that familiar gleam in her eyes that always appears right before a gibe at her expense. Still she has to ask, "What? No, not at all. Why?"

"I don't know. I thought you two," she nods at the shoes still in Angela's hands, "might want to be left alone."

"No, mother," Angela replies, annoyed.

"Nevertheless, I'll just be going. It's almost time for dinner."

"No, wait!" Dropping the pumps, she turns to face her mother. "I want to know something: when you meet a new man, what's the first thing you notice about him?"

She recognizes that Cheshire cat grin. "Well…"

"Do you notice his shoes?"

The grin vanishes, replaced by a look of serious contemplation. "Hmm. Yes, I suppose I do!"

"Hmm…"

"Is that all?"

"Yes, thanks. Oh, wait! No, it isn't!"

Halfway between the sofa and the kitchen, Mona turns around and sighs. "Yes, Angela?"

"Is it true, would you say, what they say about men's feet and… you know…?"

Mona winks at her and fluffs out her hair. "More often than not, dear. More often than not."

As her mother disappears into the kitchen, Angela collapses back against the sofa. It isn't really about the shoes themselves, of course. It's about Tony. The shoes are merely proof number… she can't even begin to guess because she lost count a long time ago… that he comes from a completely different world. A world of concrete and asphalt, of ciabatta and risotto, of neighbors who are your friends rather than your enemies, and of menacingly benevolent godfather types. A world that, no matter how much she might like to and try to, she really doesn't understand.

She remembers a saying about how you can't truly understand someone else until you have walked a mile in their shoes. A mile? She hasn't walked more than a yard or two in Tony's brown loafers. And she fears that she never will.

-----

"Tony, can I ask you… well, a rather personal question?" 

He looks up from shining the silverware after breakfast the next morning to find Angela sitting at the table, her hands clasped together in front of her. "Uh… sure?" His reply sounds like something of a question itself. Then he smirks. "But I can't promise I'll answer it."

"Where do you get your shoes?"

"My shoes?"

"Yes, your shoes. You know, the kind like you're wearing right now."

"Uh… I usually get 'em at Barry's Bargain Basement over on West Apple Avenue. Why?"

Out comes a notepad and pencil. "West Apple Avenue. Got it. Thanks!"

"Sure… no problem."

-----

Angela breezes inside the house later that afternoon with a bulky shopping bag on her arm, just as Tony comes down the stairs into the living room. 

"Hey, hey!" he greets her. "Buy somethin' nice?"

Angela fights it but the grin she feels tugging at her lips refuses be suppressed. "Kind of. You'll see."

Her mysterious answer has him intrigued, she can tell. He joins her on the sofa as she sets the bag down on the table and draws out a long, rectangular, cardboard box. With a nailfile from her purse, she slits the masking tape on all sides and removes the top. The heavy scent of new leather invades their noses.

"Wha-? Are these for me?"

"No, of course not! They're for me." Angela runs her hand proudly over her brand new pair of **Tony Shoes**, as she has come to call them.

Tony snickers, then sobers when he sees that she's serious. "Angela, no offense, but I can't picture you wearing shoes like that."

"Neither can I." Lifting one of the loafers out of its tissue-paper nest, she smiles at Tony. "But I'd still like to try them on for size."  
_  
Fin._


End file.
